


rose tinted view

by cabinfever



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Knight Shiro (Voltron), M/M, Prince Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 01:43:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17336300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabinfever/pseuds/cabinfever
Summary: The words seem to break something in Shiro. His resolve, maybe, or at least his willingness to fight whatever this is between them. He sinks to his knees at Keith’s feet, staring up at him through the white fringe of his hair. It’s nothing at all like how he’d knelt in the arena earlier. Nothing about this is like swearing fealty. This is something else entirely.They shouldn't do this. They shouldn't.They do.





	rose tinted view

**Author's Note:**

> written for sheith secret santa 2018!
> 
> title taken from glorious by muse.

This crown sits uncomfortably on his head.

Keith reaches up to try to adjust it, but the circlet digs in at different points on his head each time. He fiddles with it until it’s at its least uncomfortable point, which is not good by any means. It’s an improvement, though, and the best he’ll get for the next several hours. At this point, with how expensive these crowns are, they should at least be made for comfort.

That just brings up Kolivan’s voice in his head, reminding him that  _ The crown must weigh heavily, lest the monarch forget its burden.  _

Keith scowls. Of course Kolivan’s right.

Doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“Your Highness.” That’s Antok, leaning in through the doorway to stare at him. His face remains hidden behind the ornate dark mask of his parents’ elite guard. Keith, when he was young, used to fear the odd violet glass of the masks’ eyes when he’d seen visiting Marmorans in Terra, but ever since he got a mask of his own the anonymity has become as comforting as an embrace. “Ready to go?”

“I think so.” Keith adjusts the fastenings on his breastplate to make sure it’s holding his black cape appropriately. The thick cloth chafes at his neck, and he wishes for the softer, silky slide of his Blade uniform’s hood. He envies Antok for the fact that he gets to wear their uniforms while he’s stuck in formalwear. “Does this look okay?” he asks. Antok won’t lie to him.

Antok’s blank mask tilts just slightly to the side. Keith feels the weight of his stare. Finally, flatly, Antok says, “Quite regal, Your Highness.”

He’s no help at all.

And what’s worse, he’s still being honest. The fact that he’s skirting the question is infuriating and so like Antok. Keith resists the urge to threaten to banish him. Kolivan would hear about it somehow, and he’s not as much of a fan of the joke as Keith is. His loss.

Keith sighs and pushes his hair out of his face; he takes one last look at himself and decides that things can’t get too much better even if he spends another hour adjusting the crown. “Let’s get on with it, then.” He heads out of the door of his chamber and joins Antok on the walk to the arena. 

They’ve a tournament to run.

Servants skitter out of his way and bow as he goes. Keith tries to offer them a smile, but even those small adjustments of his facial muscles aggravate the areas where the crown pokes his head, and the smiles turn more into baring his teeth. After a few servants wince and go about their business with a bit more fervor than before, Keith sighs and gives up on it. Kolivan would probably advocate for stoicism. At least he tried to do something new. 

He’ll do better next time.

Thankfully, the exit they use isn’t far from the arena where the tournament is taking place, and when Keith enters, he’s already close to his spot in the stands. The heralds blow their horns to announce him, and immediately a cry goes up from the people standing in the other sections. 

“Prince Keith!”

Keith raises a hand in acknowledgement, and the crowd bursts out in cheers again. They’re calling his name - his Terran name - with smiles on their faces.

They won’t be calling him Yorak until he’s king. Keith’s thankful for that, at least. The name’s not horrible, but he grew up as Keith. He’s far from eager to give it up to be the king they want him to be. This place is still far from familiar, and the language of his people still feels clumsy on his tongue. His mother assures him that it will become second nature eventually, but Keith still hears the muted guilt in her voice whenever she does. He’s long since stopped blaming her for the war that forced her to leave her son with her first love. If anything, his childhood with commoners made him more familiar with their plights. The small issue, of course, is that they were commoners of Terra and not of the Marmora Coalition, but Keith thinks he can work past that.

To practice, he thanks Antok quietly in their kingdom’s native tongue as they enter the royal box. Still, the mask betrays no emotion, but Antok’s reply lilts up just enough from its usual formal monotone that Keith knows he’s impressed. 

One victory at a time.

Pidge, Lance, and Hunk are already here in their usual seats, talking or slouching or soaking up the attention. They’re in formal clothes too, wearing only the bare minimum amount of armor to show their rank as paladins. Pidge is in dark green robes with leather gauntlets, and Lance and Hunk look much the same in their red and gold.

Keith heads towards his seat at the place of honor and tries not to think about how long this tournament is going to be.

Pidge looks up from her book and frowns. “You hate that crown.”

“Don’t remind me.” Keith keeps the smile plastered on his face and accepts the cheers from the commoners standing below. A few of the other nobles in this box - all friends, because Keith only likes to keep company at these tourneys who are good at either making him laugh or staying quiet - nod to him, and that’s enough. “My mother insisted.” He fights his instinct to adjust the circlet again. “I think I’m going to sit now.”

Hunk shrugs. “Don’t bother. I think your mother’s about to speak.”

Keith rolls his eyes skyward. Maybe some merciful god will strike him down where he stands and release him from the responsibilities of inheriting a military nation. Half the time, he still forgets to stand when Krolia enters the room. The Blades are usually the ones who help him out with it, since Kolivan’s methods are conveyed more through glares of warning when they’re in public, and they can mean any manner of etiquette breaches. 

Thankfully, Kolivan and Queen Krolia are going to be sitting on the other side of the arena to demonstrate the good will between the Marmora Coalition and their visitors. Even now, across the way, the delegation from the Balmera Province arrives at the stands and gets into their spots 

Beside him, Hunk sits up straight and doesn’t look away. Maybe Keith’s imagining things, but it looks like he’s trying very desperately to look noble. It’s a valiant pursuit. Futile, maybe, but the effort is there. After all, a woman like Lady Shay deserves someone dignified.

“She’s beautiful,” Keith says. It’s the polite thing to do, after all. 

Hunk sighs. “She is, isn’t she?” Keith doesn’t think he’s ever heard Hunk sound quite this soft. “You should have seen her when she delivered justice to the villages in her province. When she confronted the raiders, she did this thing-”

“Lover boy,” Lance interrupts, flicking him on the ear. “You told the village liberation story already.”

“Did I?”

Stone-faced, Lance replies, “Yes. Several times. The entire ride here. Last night when you were drinking. Earlier today after you were holding her hand.”

“God, but her  _ hands-” _

Keith puts his head in his hands. “Hunk.”

“But she’s so strong, Keith, you don’t understand.” Hunk leans back in his seat and tugs at the loose ribbon trailing from his headband. “She was raised among the commoners and rose to the top because of the good work she did to help people. She’s-” He stops and shakes his head. “Perfect.”

“Perfect,” Pidge agrees in a tone that makes it abundantly clear that she has not been listening. 

“Hello, everyone!”

Keith looks up and smiles. “Allura, you made it. Welcome back from Altea.”

She nods. “Thank you, Keith.”

“Allura! Wow. I, uh. I didn’t see you! You look...pink.” Lance’s cheeks seem determined, however dark they already may be, to match Allura’s hue. Keith’s not sure he’s ever seen him blush so hard. “Very pink. It’s regal.”

She’s not even wearing that much pink.

Allura takes the compliment with grace, though, because she has that in spades. “You’re too kind, Lance.” Lance does have a point: the pale blush pink of her robes, peeking out against the rich blue of her paladin colors, makes her Altean tattoos seem even brighter on her cheeks. She’s as radiant as always. She tucks a stray piece of her silver hair behind her ear and sits down beside him. The two of them might think that nobody notices, but Lance and Allura are already stealing glances at each other, and everyone absolutely sees. It’s endearing, really, how they don’t realize just how obvious they are in their pining. Keith is willing to give them a pass, though, at least for today.

It’s not often that all of them are together.

With the continued threat of the Galra Empire all around them, there’s usually not time for celebration. Austerity has marked their recent years, and battle punctuates the endless months more than any calendar does. The five lions of the Coalition have been far afield for too long, fighting their way through the Galra to bring freedom back to the world. This, though, is a celebration for more than one reason: with the Balmerans joining the Coalition through marriage between Lady Shay and Hunk, their union will be strong. 

None of them care much for jousting. It’s an exhibitionist sport more often than not, and Allura insists that if she’s going to wield a polearm, she’ll use one that can’t be dodged from a mile away. She’s the best of them with polearms anyway, so Keith’s inclined to believe her. He’s more of a fan of dueling anyway. Hunk hates weapon fighting and instead usually uses his strength, but when he’s off on sieges he tends to man the heavy catapults. He and Shay have been off liberating the smaller villages and cities on the outskirts of the Balmera Province; from here, Keith notices the hard calluses on his palms from the work.

Lance has a penchant for lighting his arrows on fire, which defeats the stealth advantage of a bow, but he doesn’t seem to care about that much. He’s a good enough shot that nobody usually lives to raise the alarm. Pidge has her whip for more versatile long-range attacks, and Keith of course uses his swords. They all try to avoid the jousting when the tournaments come up. Keith, as the crown prince, was asked to do at least one bout of his own, but he’d opted to substitute his complement of knights instead.

Well.

One knight in particular.

He does have other knights, though. They’re good too. Blades, mostly. He’s trained with them himself.

The horns of the heralds sound across the arena, and one announces the arrival of Queen Krolia and the royal consort. Keith stands to attention, letting the cheers of the commoners and other nobles wash over him, and his mother and Kolivan walk into the arena, waving and nodding at those who drop to their knees as they pass. Keith’s mother turns and smiles up at Keith, who returns the expression in kind. She’s looking particularly beautiful today. She’s not in her battle armor, but the decorative black chest plate she wears is enough to remind everyone here of the lives she’s taken to defend her people. She’s wearing a circlet as well, and so’s Kolivan, so clearly she wanted the three of them to present a united front. Keith appreciates it, despite the discomfort the crown brings. 

Once the monarchs are seated, the tournament goes off without a hitch. Technically, it’s Keith’s tournament, but the other paladins and his mother’s advisors had helped him plan it so it could go well. 

As expected, some of the Terrans that came with Hunk’s retinue make it quite far. They’re all knights, wearing silver armor with sunset-orange accents, and they seem to have come in a group. Their leader, who goes by the name of Griffin, which Keith thinks is rather pretentious because he has it on good authority that his name is  _ James,  _ falls in combat only when he’s faced against Shiro. That’s no surprise, though. Nobody has any hope of falling to Shiro.

Lady Shay’s brother, a brawny fellow who doesn’t look like he knows how to smile, has an impressive showing in the melee but doesn’t enter the lists for jousting. Keith wonders if he’d be good in a one-on-one fight and resolves to ask him about it at the banquet they’ll be having after the tournament. He could use a good spar to clear his head.

Every time Shiro’s jousting, Keith gets distracted and trails off from whatever he’d been talking about. 

With the smuggest, slyest voice, Pidge asks, “What are you looking at?”

“I’m not looking at anything.”

“Keith.”

“That’s ‘Your Highness’ to you, Pidge.” He elbows her, but she dodges out of the way of the brunt of it. She’s got that skinny nimbleness that’s impossible to work around. Keith thinks that he might have to banish her from the kingdom. Princes are probably allowed to do that.

God, but Shiro  _ does _ look good in his white armor.

“My brother’s been telling me that Shiro’s been the only one around while we’ve been gone. With Hunk in the Balmera Province and Lance and me back in Terra, and Allura traveling the world...must get lonely. One lion all by himself in his castle?” She elbows him again. It hurts, of course. She knows all his weak points. “Except for one white-haired knight?”

Keith sinks down in his chair - god, if his mother were sitting here she’d kill him for this posture - and doesn’t dignify her with an answer. So it’s true that he and Shiro have really been the only nobles or knights of their age around the castle. Maybe they’ve had a few drinks together. It was just as friends, though. They’re just comrades. 

That’s it.

Allura rescues him with a smooth question: “Pidge, have you seen Shiro’s new arm? I worked with your father and some of the other Terran inventors to help it move like a true arm.”

Pidge adjusts her glasses, squinting down at where Shiro is carefully adjusting his grip on his lance. Even at this distance, it’s hard to miss the impossible silvery gleam of the Altean engineering on his right side. Nobody quite knows how the white knight of the Marmora lost his arm. Some say it was from his brief stint as a prisoner of the Galra Empire, but he’s never confirmed it. Not publically, at least. Keith’s sure that Shiro told his mother and Kolivan when he entered the royal family’s personal guard as part of the alliance with Terra. He’s not going to pry, though. Pidge says, “I can’t believe you managed to make the grip so strong. I’d love to get a look at it.”

“Ask Shiro. I’m sure he’d be amenable.”

He would. Keith knows that; he’s not sure Shiro has ever said no on a whim before. 

The final bout is the one everyone has been the most excited for. One of his mother’s best knights is up against Shiro. Keith’s not used to seeing the royal knight outside of patrols; he’s not a Blade, so Keith doesn’t even recall his name. The herald says it, of course, but Keith’s focusing on his own champion.

Shiro looks no worse for wear, even after his several rounds of jousting. He’d taken a few hits here and there, but never enough to unseat him from his horse.

To nobody’s surprise, Shiro wins this one too.

He’s a graceful winner, though, and he doesn’t even acknowledge the cheering crowd until he’s helped pull his competitor from the ground. The whole time, his soft smile is visible even from this distance. It’s clear he won’t brag about it, but he had to have known he would be the victor; how couldn’t he, with how good he’s always been. Keith’s about to descend from the stands to join the victor on the field and praise him, but it seems that some people never learned manners.

“It’s no fair!” the losing knight complains loudly, as if Shiro isn’t still right next to him. “His arm isn’t even real!”

Hunk mutters, “Ten gold says Shiro could still destroy him with just the left arm.”

“Who would ever take that bet?” Pidge replies. “Have you seen him?”

“Yeah, Keith, have you-“

Keith elbows Lance before he can finish. The yelp lets him know he hit a sweet spot, and he grins. “Insubordination. Shut up; I want to hear what this idiot has to say.” 

Shiro doesn’t make a sound in his own defense. He would never stoop to this knight’s level; he’s won the bout fairly, and he has no obligation to justify this to any of them. 

“This is a Marmoran tournament, and a Terran pawn has no place here!”

_ Terran- _

Keith stands.

“Here we go,” Allura sighs. “He’s really done it now.”

The yells of the crowd silence to a hush. 

The weight of hundreds of eyes falls on him, and so too do the gazes of the knights. Keith swallows and focuses on his indignance on Shiro’s behalf, and he locks the losing knight in a stare that he knows won’t be broken. Who would ever look away from their prince? Coldly, loudly, he says, “Sir, the last time I checked, someone’s origin had no bearing on their ability, and as the losing party, you’ve no right to insult Sir Takashi’s.”

The crowd holds its breath. Keith wishes he could hold his own as well.

Then, in the tongue of their kingdom, he adds, “And you’d do well to remember who else here hails from Terra.”

Even from this distance, the blanching of the knight’s skin is obvious. He falls to his knees in the dirt, and a cloud of dust billows up around him. “My prince,” he gasps. “I meant no offense.”

“Then surely your intentions for Sir Takashi are the same?” Keith asks. He can feel the way a snarl makes its way into his voice. Shiro is more of a knight than all the other competitors in this tournament combined.

“Of course, Your Highness. My deepest apologies, Your Highness.”

Keith folds his arms. “Go on your way, then, so we can congratulate our winning knight accordingly.”

The knight practically falls over himself in his efforts to bow and run out of the arena. A few of the commoners in the stands throw things his way, but most of them just jeer, and Keith appreciates that. Support from the people is nice, but he doesn’t want their arena ruined by thrown food.

But then Shiro is left alone in the arena, standing strong and bright and beautiful, and only then does Keith allow himself to smile.

He can’t get down to the center of the arena quickly enough. Shiro waits for him the whole time, standing at the side of his silver mare, smiling first at the crowd and then at him. Keith approaches, offers something lopsided that he hopes is a smile, and takes out what he’d been saving for the victor of this tournament: a silk handkerchief of his. The prince’s favor.

He never had to do things like this back in Terra.

He’d thought he might be able to tie the handkerchief around Shiro’s arm twice, but the bulk of the white armor prevents him from doing it. He does the best he can, though, and the dark fabric 

When it’s done, he smooths his fingers over the fabric to make it smooth and meets Shiro’s eyes. “Congratulations,” he murmurs, “my champion.”

And Sir Takashi Shirogane, Keith’s chosen champion and best guard, sinks to one knee and kisses Keith’s hand.

Keith forgets how to breathe.

Softly, quiet enough that it’s just between the two of them, Shiro says, “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Keith is in way over his head.

 

* * *

 

He finds some peace in the stables after the crowds are done with him.

All of the other paladins’ horses are kept here, given space along with the horses of the Marmora monarchs and their best knights. Hunk’s stocky palomino isn’t here, so that probably means that he’s run off with Shay for the rest of the evening. Keith can’t decide if that’s good or bad news. At least they’ll all get some peace and quiet, and the only desperate lovebirds left on the castle grounds are Allura and Lance. 

Lance has a fierce bay that sticks its head out of its stall with a quiet nicker of greeting. Keith stops in his tracks and heads over to see her. Though in the lamplight and filtered sunlight of the stables she looks brown, she turns an exquisite red in full sunlight. She snorts and butts her head against his hand when he tries to rub her nose. “These are for Lady,” he tells her, but she’s insistent now that he’s over here. Keith sighs and digs into the pouch at his belt and pulls out a few sugar cubes. The bay’s ears flick forward in interest and, quicker than light, the cubes disappear from the palm of his hand.

“She’s already eaten, Your Highness,” one of the passing stable hands says. 

“Lance spoils her,” Keith replies over his shoulder, patting the bay on the side of her thick neck. “And I’m her favorite uncle, probably.”

The stable hand shrugs and picks up his wheelbarrow full of hay and continues on his way with a nod of farewell. They all know better than to argue with the prince, especially where the other paladins’ horses are concerned. 

Eventually, Keith gives Lance’s red a pat on the nose and heads down to where the royal horses are kept. Almost as soon as he gets within twenty feet of his destination, a shining black nose pokes out of one of the largest stalls.

There she is: the other half of the legend of the Black Lion. 

“Hello, lovely,” he calls, and she makes a little rumbling noise that he knows means she’s happy to see him. He jogs the rest of the way to her stall and vaults over the top so he can stand in the hay by her side. His large black mare startles backwards, but she’s well used to his antics by now, and he immediately holds out an apple slice for her which she snaps up happily. 

In a turn of events that has made Lance as smug as ever, she’s been called Lady by most of the squires and paladins here. Lance likes to think he’s the best at giving nicknames, and he’s never going to let Keith forget that he was responsible for the beloved nickname of Keith’s horse. Of course, Keith invited this by not naming her, but she hasn’t told him what she wants to be called yet. It’ll happen when it happens.

“I promise I’ll take you on a good hunt sometime soon,” he whispers into her mane. She lets him do it, so Keith calls it a victory. “We’ll bring the wolf too.”

She snorts at the mention of the wolf.

“Don’t worry. I see sugar cubes in your future if you two get along.”

Nobody in the kingdom can say that he doesn’t treat his horse well. The image of the Black Lion isn’t just the paladin; it’s the steed too. Keith wouldn’t trade her for the world, and he wants to make sure she knows it. For good measure, he sneaks her a few sugar cubes. It’s an investment, really. She eats them up quickly, snuffling towards where she knows he’s hiding more, and blows out air against his hand in a quiet demand. Keith kisses her forehead instead and reaches for her brush to begin working on her mane.

From the main doors closest to him, the sound of feet and hooves fills the stable, along with a new shaft of sunlight as the door is thrown open. 

Usually, the squires take care of the knights’ horses; Keith usually banks on that because it makes it easier to avoid his knights. Namely one knight. 

This knight.

Shiro.

He does a double take when he sees Keith, and he rubs the back of his neck with an armored hand. “I can go, Your Highness-”

“No,” Keith interrupts, voice loud even in his own ears. “No, you can stay. It’s not just my place. Your horse, uh...it lives here too.”

Shiro blinks. He is indeed holding Atlas, his silver mare, by a lead. “Yeah. Yeah, she lives here.” He raises his other hand - the right one, all clinking steel plates and odd gears - and points down the way. “I’m going to. Ah. Going to go.”

“Right.” Keith’s hand hurts. He hazards a glance down and realizes that he’s holding Lady’s brush so tightly that one of its small splinters is working its way through his gloves. Fantastic. “Right, of course.”

With a nod of farewell, Shiro continues on his way, leading a placid Atlas along behind him. His horse is truly massive, intimidating to anyone who’s not aware that she’s the most affectionate horse to walk these lands. She’s tall enough to dwarf nearly any of the stablehands and certainly all of the paladins. Shiro, though, reaches her shoulder perfectly. 

He’s still wearing Keith’s favor. The shining black and purple cloth is striking against the white enameled steel of his armor and the windblown silver tumble of his hair. Half a ghost and half a machine, Shiro never ceases to take Keith’s breath away.

The curious, insidious part of Keith wonders how Shiro would look wearing the regalia of one of the court. How would the garb of a noble sit on his shoulders?

“Shiro,” he calls before he can stop himself. “Could you come here, please?”

There’s a quiet murmur from a few stalls down as Shiro must hand Atlas’s reins off to someone for safekeeping, and the mare’s ironclad steps fade towards locations unknown. Human footsteps approach, though, accompanied by the quiet clink and rustle of armor. It stops just outside of Keith’s peripheral vision, but he knows that it’s Shiro. 

“You rode well today,” he says, focusing on working through a tangle in his mare’s dark mane instead of meeting Shiro’s eyes. He can’t imagine where she must have been running to get it so thoroughly covered in burrs. It’s as if she goes looking for trouble. He kisses her head when she tries to nip irritably at his cape, and she flicks her ears to shoo him away. Patience was never her strong suit. It’s what makes them a good pair.

Shiro clears his throat. If Keith were looking at him, he’s sure he’d see a blush making its way up towards the scar on the bridge of his nose. He’s seen it happen before. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

“The others call me Keith, you know.”

“The others are paladins, you know.” They’ve had this conversation enough times that this could almost be a speech written with the help of one of their scribes. Shiro still calls him by his title, even though they once trained in the same yard in one of the Terran forts.

Keith idly starts twirling a little plait into Lady’s mane. She lets him lean against her strong shoulder for balance and also maybe for a bit of comfort. As he pulls the thick black mane into a braid, he says, “But you’re my knight, y’know? I like keeping you around.” There. He’s said it. The words hang in the dusty twilight of the stable between them, drifting in motes of possibility along with the light shed by the lanterns and setting sun. And still the silence stretches on.

“You proved that earlier.”

“Earlier…?” Keith frowns. “Oh. The thing with the loser. It was…” Nerve-wracking. Terrifying. Potentially disastrous. “It was the least I could do. You deserve respect, Shiro.”

“All the same.” Shiro steps a little closer. “I wanted to thank you.” 

God, and he does sound so earnest.

Keith finally turns to meet Shiro’s eyes, and his knight is far closer than he expected him to be. He’s tall up close, and Keith has to lift his chin to look at him straight. “Shiro,” he says, and he forgets what he’s trying to say. The last time they were this close-

“You have hay in your crown,” Shiro murmurs. Up close, it looks like his eyes have flecks of brown or gold in them. In every way, he is like precious metal, unyielding and warm. The low timbre of his voice shakes him in ways he’d not thought possible before now.

“Do I?” Keith asks. He must look ridiculous. “I-”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his apology, because Shiro’s lips find his, and every rational thought goes out the window.

This isn’t the first time they’ve done this.

One kiss had been bad enough. Maybe they could have explained that one away with the haze from the wine they’d been drinking. Just a joke between friends. It would be easier for both of them to pretend that their bond goes no further than Shiro’s oath of fealty, or of the camaraderie of brothers in arms. Just a prince and his knight, and nothing more.

Nothing more.

But-

But he doesn’t want that.

Keith sighs and wraps his arms around Shiro’s neck, dragging him in closer, and he takes as much as he can get.

Shiro’s lips are just as warm and soft as he remembers, and the smell of him is immediately intoxicating. He smells like steel and sweat and exertion; somehow he makes it work. The cold metal of Shiro’s arm curls around the back of his neck, holding him closer, lifting him to meet Shiro’s lips. Keith strains up on his toes to get closer, and Shiro’s other arm wraps around his waist to keep him there. 

Shiro breaks away, though, just as Keith groans and tries to deepen the kiss, and the departure leaves him cold. He lets go all at once, and Keith stumbles back in the hay. 

“Shiro…?”

“We shouldn’t keep doing this,” Shiro says, and he leans his head back against the wooden post of the stall.

That stings. Keith wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and breathlessly demands, “Says who?”

“Says my vows, for one.” Shiro runs his hand through his hair. “Says whatever alliance your marriage will cement for the Coalition. Marriage to someone who isn’t your knight.”

Keith folds his arms. “There’s more than one way to make an alliance, and my mother wouldn’t-”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I…” He stops.

How much does he really know about what Krolia would do to bring the nation forward?

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Shiro says, and he looks just as shattered as Keith feels.  _ Good,  _ Keith thinks, a little viciously. Maybe then he’ll realize that he’s being noble for all the wrong reasons. “I can’t - I can’t do this to you.”

Keith steps back. His neck aches where the metal of Shiro’s arm dug into the skin. There’ll be imprints there, and maybe bruises. “I think it would be best if you left the stable,” he says softly. “Now.”

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says again, and Keith’s heart aches with longing and frustration.

“Can somebody please attend to Sir Takashi’s horse for him?” he asks loudly, and from across the stable, a chorus of affirmations come back immediately from the other end of the building. There are surely at least three stable hands running to obey their prince right now.

Shiro’s eyes go wide at the proper name, and Keith’s vicious, hurting side purrs its vindication. Titles can be used both ways. “Your Highness.”

“Please leave,” Keith whispers, “before either of us says something we’ll regret.”

He still wants Shiro. He still wants his knight, customs and standards be damned. Just because he’s the crown prince of these people doesn’t mean he’s forgotten that he used to be Terran like Shiro; that he trained in the same yard as Shiro for years and admired him the whole time. 

But he can’t tell Shiro that. Princes don’t show weakness.

“Of course,” Shiro says, and he bows before he turns and walks out of Lady’s stall. 

Keith can’t look at him right now. He buries his face in Lady’s mane until he doesn’t hear Shiro’s footsteps anymore. She doesn’t fight him this time. If anything, she leans into the touch, giving Keith something to hold.  _ I’m here,  _ her stance says, and Keith clings to her like a child.  _ What do you want from me? _

He wants Shiro, and he’s powerless to do anything about it. He inherited all the power in the world, and still he can’t do a thing.

 

* * *

 

Maybe it’s not so bad after all.

He’s adaptable. This is just a minor stumbling block; surely there are other knights or lords or princes who will be able to be with Keith, unfettered by their oaths to king and country. Keith hadn’t even seen him at the feast earlier, so maybe he’s giving Keith space so that they can forget about this whole mess. It’s a shame.

By now, the knight who insulted Shiro should be on his way to his new posting in the heart of Terra. Maybe that will teach him to respect knights of other nations, and maybe he’ll learn some common manners as well. There are still some things that princes can do to change the world, after all.

Small victories.

He’s celebrating on his own, drinking a glass of wine and flipping through one of the Marmoran histories that his mother wants him to read. It’s entertaining, actually, and far more interesting than any of the Terran nonsense he’d been forced to read when he was training at their Garrison. The Marmoran legacy is one of rebellion, subterfuge, and sabotage; of soldiers sneaking away from the Galra Empire in the dead of night to meet and plot and escape. Their nation’s enemies still scornfully call them the Galra, their close-mindedness shields them from joining the greatest state since Old Altea. The war is turning around, and the Coalition plans to be at the vanguard of the final push to destroy the Galra.

Any day now.

Keith itches for war. He misses a sword in his hand and the rush of the fight. He wants to take Lady out for a run and sprint across the countryside for miles. There must be something that can take him out of the monotony of regal living in the Marmoran stronghold. If the weather is nice tomorrow, maybe he’ll just wrestle with the wolf in the training yard for a bit. The paladins like to place bets on who wins those fights; they’d all get a kick out of it.

A knock on the door interrupts him.

Can he not even mope in peace?

He sighs and stands, setting the wine goblet on the table beside his chair and heading to the door. He throws it open, not caring that he’s not in much more than his shirt and underclothes; he’d stripped the cape and armor off as soon as he’d returned from the feast. At this hour, the only people that could possibly be trying to bother him are Kolivan or Krolia or a servant or a guard or-

_ Oh. _

“Shiro,” he says, and he realizes he’s not surprised at all to see him.

Shiro nods his head in a brief hello that also doubles as a gesture of deference. “Your Highness.”

That title again. Keith manages to hide most of his grimace at the sound and opens the door a little further. He looks Shiro up and down. He’s not in his armor anymore, having shucked it in favor of what he must have worn to dinner with the other knights. It fits him nicely, as most clothes do. Under the weight of Keith’s scrutiny, he doesn’t shrink, and Keith respects him just a little bit more for it. He says, once more, “Shiro.” And then, still holding the door tightly, he asks, “Why are you here? You’re not on shift.” Shiro never guards him at night. The excuse he gives is something about his white armor being conspicuous at night in the castle, but Antok tells Keith that the castle hallways are always just as well lit in the night as in the day. 

“I came to talk to you.” Shiro’s eyes flick down to his outfit, and they drag their way up more slowly than they descended. Keith bears the weight of his gaze expectantly. Shiro’s cheeks flush a bit red when he meets Keith’s eyes, and he hastily averts his gaze towards the top of his head. “I thought you hated that crown.”

Keith casts his eyes upward as if he’ll have a chance of seeing the spikes. At the mention of it, though, the pressure points of it make themselves known with extreme prejudice. It’s just his luck that he’d be reminded of his discomfort just as soon as he’s forgotten it. “I do,” he mutters. “No need to rub it in.”

“It looks good.”

“What?”

Shiro bites his lip. “Uh. The crown. It becomes you. Your Highness.”

Again with that. Keith handwaves it away. “Did you come here to flatter me or rub the rejection in my face?”

“Neither, actually.”

That’s intriguing. Keith opens the door a bit wider and gestures widely towards the interior of his bedroom in a parody of royal etiquette. “Come inside, then.”

It almost looks like Shiro will hesitate, but then he seems to think better of it and takes the suggestion. 

Guards usually don’t come inside.

A prince’s chambers are to be guarded from the outside. The mission is all that matters, and all of the Blades of Marmora are taught this from the day they take their oaths to the kingdom. The job is seldom personal, and rarely entertaining. Forging a link between guard and charge does nothing better than compromise the integrity of the defense. Familiarity beyond militant  camaraderie is a weakness.

So Keith’s chambers are usually empty.

But tonight, Shiro’s not on shift. Someone else is guarding the prince, and he is not bound by his oaths. He wanders into Keith’s chambers slowly, entering as a guest, unfettered by fealty. His gaze flickers to the windows; the ceiling; the doors. Even now, he’s still looking out for Keith’s safety. But the tension in his shoulders isn’t the same as his usual posture, so Keith allows the scrutiny. He wonders if Shiro notices that his bed is unmade even though it’s not nearly late enough for sleep.

He wonders what Shiro thinks of that.

Keith closes the door behind Shiro and heads back towards his chair, brushing past the large bulk of Shiro. His knight’s still wearing the metal arm made for him by the Terran and Altean engineers; Keith doesn’t understand the elaborate clockwork that keeps it flexible, but it reminds him of the savage grace of the best Marmoran siege engines. He wonders how dextrous it is. He asks, “Shiro, why are you here?”

“I wanted to talk about...that thing. This thing.” He sighs. “Us?”

“I thought we’d agreed that nobody could ever know about this, whatever it is. Or was.” Perhaps ‘agree’ isn’t the best term; Keith never wanted this. He can see in Shiro’s silver eyes that he doesn’t either. He saw it in the stable and he’s sure he sees it now.

Shiro nods, and he looks away, focusing on something closer to Keith’s feet. “We did.”

“So?” Maybe he changed his mind.

“I’ll go,” Shiro murmurs, eyes still downcast. 

“Go?”

In a rush, Shiro says, “From your service. If I’m distracted, I cannot serve you the way I should. I would never dare come between you and your duty.”

“I am  _ your _ duty, Shiro, so we shouldn’t have a problem.” Keith folds his arms. “The Blade of Marmora began as a spy organization to uncover plots against the king; did you know that?”

“Of course I do.”

“And you know that I am a Blade as well as a paladin.”

Shiro looks almost hurt. “Of course.”

“Then you know,” Keith says, “that nobody is better at keeping a prince’s secrets than the prince himself.” He 

“I’m not a lion like you, Your Highness.”

“My name is Keith,” Keith reminds him tightly.

Shiro’s face turns briefly uncomfortable. “You’re the Black Lion,” he says, dancing around Keith’s name with a new title. “And you already have four knights. Four highly capable knights - four highly capable  _ paladins  _ \- who will protect you-”

“As if you won’t?”

“I can’t. Not effectively.”

Keith leans up into his space; he narrows his eyes and focuses as hard as he can on Shiro’s face to try to force him to meet his gaze. “Don’t lie to me just because you don’t think you deserve me, or something noble like that.” He shakes his head. “You’re better than that and you know it. You’re the best fighter out of Terra, and I  _ do  _ include the other paladins in that. And myself.”

A soft sigh escapes Shiro, and his warm silver eyes tick over to meet Keith’s. He says, “That doesn’t change that you make it very hard to focus.”

He has to laugh. “Do you think that doesn’t go both ways?” Shiro is still taller than him, but Keith manages to rise up on his toes to get closer. With every inch, the temptation to kiss him grows stronger, but he resists. He’s a prince; he has more control than that. But his lips end up close enough that he feels the warm puff of Shiro’s breath against them, and he can’t construct any sort of lie when faced with that. He murmurs, “I can’t stop thinking about you, Shiro.”

The words seem to break something in Shiro. His resolve, maybe, or at least his willingness to fight whatever this is between them. He sinks to his knees at Keith’s feet, staring up at him through the white fringe of his hair. It’s nothing at all like how he’d knelt in the arena earlier. Nothing about this is like swearing fealty. This is something else entirely. 

Keith likes it.

“I can’t stop thinking about you either,” Shiro says softly. His voice is just on the right side of rough. 

“Please,” Keith begs, “tell me what you want. I need…” To be sure. To hear it in his voice. To know that they’re going through with this regardless of what anyone will think.

“You.”

“Who?” Keith murmurs. “Say my name.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“I want you to. I want to hear what I mean to you.” 

Helplessly, wide-eyed, Shiro stares up at him. Keith raises an eyebrow, but he gets nothing in return but silence. It seems his small victories won’t extend that far tonight. 

“Get off your knees. You don’t need to do that for me.” Keith sits back in his chair and picks up his goblet again. He takes a long swig of it, savoring the warmth that pools in his stomach along with the drink. He swirls the remaining wine idly, watching it slosh around in the goblet. The rich dark color of it catches the torchlight. This is a particularly delicious batch; he’ll have to make sure they keep serving it to him, whatever it is. That’ll be good to warm his heart with the coming winter. He frowns, though. Something isn’t right.

Shouldn’t there be a knight towering over him by now?

He peers over the rim of his goblet to where Shiro is still waiting on his knees. Shiro looks up when Keith’s attention shifts to him, and his shale-gray eyes gleam like steel. Dangerous. Deadly. 

Beautiful.

“Shiro,” he says softly, and he extends his free hand to take his knight by the cheek. He can just barely feel the wiry rasp of new stubble beneath his touch. Immediately, he can’t think of anything other than what that stubble might feel like against his skin. “Are you okay?” he asks, because he’s not sure he is himself. He’s curiously lightheaded. There’s no way he had enough to drink to make him feel this way. 

“Let me show you what you mean to me,” Shiro murmurs.

“Thought you didn’t want to get caught doing something like this,” Keith replies, thankful that the wine has smoothed out the edges of his words and turned them into something liquid and warm. 

Shiro smiles, and  _ god,  _ Keith had no idea his perfect knight could look so dangerous. “Nobody’s going to see us here.”

“Oh.  _ Oh.”  _ He laughs; he may be panicking a bit. He never imagined he’d get this far tonight.

Keith’s already hard by the time Shiro gets him out of his underclothes. He strips out of his shirt as well, and Shiro hums in approval; his metal arm reaches up to smooth down from Keith’s chest and settles at the top of one of his hip bones. The touch, though chilly, grounds him, and Keith welcomes the goosebumps that come with it.

Still, though, Shiro doesn’t do anything but take Keith in his hand, a soft touch without much purpose. Keith squirms; tries to raise his hips up into the touch, but Shiro holds him down with the hand on his hip.

“What are you doing?” he demands.

“Just looking,” Shiro says. “Admiring. You’re beautiful, you know.”

Keith turns his gaze skyward; he knows his cheeks are burning. “Shiro, you can’t just -  _ fuck-” _

He must have been waiting to do that.

Shiro licks a stripe from the shaft to the head of Keith’s cock, grins, and wraps his lips around him like he was born to do it. Maybe he was; Keith can’t stop looking at how his full lips look stretched wide. 

He’s never felt anything like this before.

“Shiro,  _ ah, Shiro,  _ please,” he whines, and he tangles his fingers into the soft hair at the top of Shiro’s head. 

It seems as if Shiro’s come here just to take him apart. Maybe this is what he’s best at: not fighting, like everyone else assumes. Maybe Keith’s knight was always meant to be here, on his knees in a lamplit room, sucking Keith like he was born to do it.

At one point, Shiro blinks up at him with his eyes like quicksilver, and Keith can’t take it anymore. He tightens his hold in the mess of Shiro’s hair and demands, “Come up here.”

The sound Shiro makes when he pulls his mouth away should be a punishable offense. Keith almost immediately regrets telling him to stop, missing the expert warmth of his mouth, but he wants to get his hands on Shiro now; he wants to make him feel as good as Shiro is making him feel. Shiro rises from his knees, towering over Keith, and he places on knee beside Keith on the chair so he can dip down and kiss him. Keith tastes himself in Shiro’s mouth, and he delights in having Shiro so thoroughly. 

“I can - I want to-” He fumbles ineffectually at the front of Shiro’s breeches.

Shiro’s hand catches his wrists - both of them - easily. His grasp is gentle but firm. “Don’t push yourself,” he murmurs. “There’s no rush. You don’t need to do everything I do for you.”

“But I want to,” Keith protests. He does. A wild, hungry part of him calls out for satisfaction. It demands it with all the imperviousness of the king he’ll be one day. It makes him wonder how Shiro’s skin tastes, and if he’d like to have a prince on his knees for him. Anything to pull out soft sounds from Shiro. Maybe if he’s lucky, he could get Shiro to say  _ Keith- _

A soft squeeze to his wrists pulls him back into the moment. Keith meets Shiro’s warm gray eyes, and that refocuses him. Shiro can always hold his attention. “Highness,” Shiro chides. “Don’t try to do everything at once.”

“I could learn.”

“We have time. There’ll be more chances.” Shiro smiles. “Right?”

More chances. More chances.

That sounds like a promise. That sounds like a future.

“Then let me do something I do know,” Keith suggests, and he runs his thumb along Shiro’s swollen lips. “Can you take your clothes off for me, Shiro?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have phrased it like a question; like a challenge. Those sorts of things have always been notorious for spurring Shiro into action. He tears his shirt up and over his head easily, revealing his scarred torso, and follows suit with his breeches and underclothes. The whole time, his eyes burn into Keith.

The metal arm is still strapped across his chest in an elaborate series of leather and metal trappings. It looks quite heavy, but Shiro wears it like it’s nothing. Keith itches to get beneath the straps and touch and kiss and learn. He wants as much of Shiro as he can get. Keith chases him up, kicking away the last of his clothes and backing Shiro up against the door to his room. It’s an echo of what they’d had earlier in the stables, but far better already.

He reaches down and takes hold of Shiro where he’s already hard against Keith and strokes him the way he likes to touch himself, burying his face in Shiro’s neck to bite a mark into the skin he finds there.

“God, your hand…” Shiro trails off into a groan, and Keith blushes. His hands are insignificant things, callused by years of fighting and scarred by half a hundred accidents with one blade or another. 

Touching Shiro is as Still, though, he

They’re both eager; before long, Shiro’s hips are rolling up to meet his strokes, and his breath puffs against Keith’s skin like a brand of fire.

“Keith,” Shiro breathes against his skin. “Keith.”

That’s all he’s needed.

“Say it again,” Keith demands. The desire to hear his name in Shiro’s voice rises in his chest like hunger, clawing and desperate. 

_ “Keith,”  _ Shiro hisses into his ear, and Keith cries out softly against Shiro’s skin, open-mouthed and quiet. He needs more.

“When I left, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Couldn’t get you out of my head; couldn’t stop craving you.” Shiro laughs breathlessly, and Keith mouths at his throat so he can better feel the vibrations. “Did you know, Keith, that your favor smells like you?”

The cloth? Of course it does - it’s one of his favorite black handkerchiefs, taken from his drawers. He’d been keeping it on his waist the whole time he’d been getting ready for the tournament. “Yes,” he breathes, chest tight with anticipation. He dares to ask, “Did you-“

“Kept it close so I could remember. It’s nothing like kissing you, but it helped.” Shiro takes Keith’s hair in one hand and drags him up, claiming his mouth in a searing, possessive kiss that has Keith’s hand faltering before he finds his rhythm again. When they part again, Shiro’s words come hot against Keith’s lips, close enough that Keith could kiss them out of him if he tried. “Had to keep quiet. Other knights around. They could’ve heard me say your name when I -  _ ah, Keith-” _

That’s an image that will live with Keith for years: the thought of Shiro alone in his quarters, halfway out of his armor, taking himself in hand and silencing himself with a mouth full of the fabric Keith gave him. He moans, ruts up against Shiro’s thigh, and can’t find any words to reply. 

“Did you touch yourself, Keith?”

_ “Yes.”  _ In his bed after the feast, frustrated over the rejection but with Shiro on his mind, he’d muffled his cries of his knight’s name into his pillow. It hadn’t been enough. 

This, though-

This could be enough.

And-

The door handle clinks.

Keith and Shiro freeze.

Someone’s trying to get in here.

“Your Highness?” someone calls, and the handle rattles again.

“Go away!” Keith hisses through the door, and there’s a small  _ eep  _ of alarm that must be one of the servants that wanted to come in and ready his chamber for bed. 

Shiro shakes against him, and Keith hesitates, but when he leans back to look him in the eye, all he sees is the bright flash of his teeth in a smile. He’s laughing, god bless him, and Keith thinks he falls a little bit in love with him. “You’re too loud, Your Highness,” he teases. “You need to be quiet or you’ll attract attention.”

“Shut me up, then,” Keith dares him, and he takes both of them in hand; he’s hard again and he wants Shiro more than ever before, and nothing has ever felt as good as this. 

There’s a brief moment when Shiro leans his head back against the door and stares at Keith with wide, hungry eyes. Like this, they’re so dark, so swallowed up by his pupils, that they nearly look black. But then he crushes Keith’s mouth to his in a kiss that has Keith moaning, and Keith forgets how to understand color. When Shiro pulls back, he raises his left hand and gently presses his first two fingers against Keith’s bottom lip. He raises a silver eyebrow in a question.

_ Oh. _

Nobody has ever taken him up on a dare before.

Keith opens his mouth.

Shiro’s fingers are big, even just two of them. Keith lets his eyes slip shut so he can focus on the sensation of Shiro all around him, and he keeps working his hand around the two of them with as much of a rhythm as he can manage.

“There you go,” Shiro praises softly, and Keith shudders.

There could be any amount of people outside trying to get in here and talk to their prince. Keith knows none of them will ever get past the solid bulk of Shiro against the door, and he lets Shiro’s strength swallow him up. It’s not quite possible right now to wrap his legs around Shiro’s waist to have him hold him up entirely. For now, though, he settles for his hand on Shiro’s cock and Shiro’s fingers in his mouth.

He tries to say what’s on his mind, but his words are muffled by Shiro’s fingers. Shiro murmurs a quiet apology and removes them; Keith misses them already.

“What was it, beautiful?” Shiro asks.

“Wish it was you, Shiro,” he pants, because the image is stark in his mind of Shiro sitting on the throne with Keith kneeling between his legs. He wants to hear Shiro breathe his name like a command from a king to his knight. 

“Soon,” Shiro promises, low and urgent and rough. “Soon.”

Keith cries out when his orgasm hits him, and he spills against Shiro’s stomach and between his own fingers, shaking. Shiro holds him through it - of course he does - and follows suit with a softly growled  _ Keith  _ in his ear. 

The two of them stand there, leaning against his bedroom door, and don’t speak for several moments. All the sounds they make are soft pants as they come down from the high they reached together. Keith thinks his legs might be weak.

“To bed,” Keith murmurs at last. “Bed, bed, c’mon.”

Shiro wastes no time in picking Keith up - Keith is too blissed-out to complain - and carrying him to the bed. Keith raises his clean hand to trace the hard, sweat-stained line of Shiro’s jawline. He’s bitten a few marks into the skin that won’t be easily explained away. It doesn’t seem like Shiro minds.

He’s pleased now that he’d already messed up the bed. It’s easier to fall into it with Shiro. He snags a cloth from his bedside table and lazily moves down to help clean Shiro and him up. It’s the least he can do. He has royal manners, after all.

Softly, Shiro says, “You don’t need to do that for me.”

“It’s for my comfort as much as it’s for yours. I used to be a squire,” Keith reminds him. “I know how to serve a knight.”

Shiro props himself up on one elbow and smiles lazily. “I know you do.”

Keith snorts and dips his head to bite a soft warning into the meat of Shiro’s thigh. The muscle twitches beneath his teeth, and Shiro laughs. It’s an easy exchange, casual as if Shiro hasn’t only just begun calling Keith by his first name, and Keith likes the way it feels. 

A large hand cups the back of his head and brings him up the chiseled mass of Shiro’s body to lay with him at the head of the bed. Keith blinks at Shiro, hesitates, and leans in for a kiss. Shiro’s lips are still soft; still swollen, and Keith bites at his bottom lip just in case the message wasn’t clear enough: Shiro is his now. Shiro sinks into the kiss, welcoming Keith’s attention with a low hum that rumbles its way into Keith’s bones, and when he pulls away, his eyes gleam silver. “I think you cut yourself on this,” he says, and his touch is soft; thick fingers thread gently through his hair for him. The reverence makes Keith blush, but he lets Shiro remove the crown from his head and set it aside on the pillow. The silver metal and black gems gleam in the lantern light of Keith’s chambers; it’s surely worth more than most of the things Shiro has touched in his whole life. Shiro ignores it, though, and focuses instead on some of the spots where Keith’s head feels tender. “Might be a bit of blood. I shouldn’t have pulled your hair so hard.”

Keith snorts. “I don’t mind. You can help me wash it out.”

“I’ll have to take off the arm. It can’t get wet.”

“Do you think I mind?” Keith turns his head so he can kiss Shiro’s palm. “Because I don’t.”

“That’s good to hear.” The words are neutral enough, but Keith hears the muted joy that’s brewing behind them. Shiro’s pleased.

Good. Good.

“Nobody can know about this,” Keith breathes to the ceiling. Kolivan would have his head if he found out. His mother would probably help Kolivan mount it on a pike on the castle walls. Even worse things would happen to Shiro, without a doubt. Keith can’t let that happen. He  _ won’t  _ let that happen.

“Know about what?” Shiro asks.

Keith blinks at the ceiling and turns his head to look at Shiro. Shiro, though, is grinning at him. “What?” he demands.

Shiro’s smile could rival the sun. “Not sure what you’re talking about, Your Highness.” When Keith rolls his eyes, Shiro says, “See? You’re not the only one who can keep a secret.”

“I guess so,” Keith admits, and he realizes that he’s perfectly fine with that.

Nobody can know. Not yet.

That’s fine.

 

* * *

 

It takes five months for him to make a move.

Five months of waiting. Five months of hiding. Five months of deciding how best to work around the laws of their nation and the wishes of Keith’s parents. The whole time, Shiro’s public attitude remains wholly unchanged. He bows when Keith enters the room, calls him  _ Your Highness  _ and turns his starshine smiles to lords and ladies alike at all the banquets he’s allowed to attend. And Keith is patient.

And if Keith brings his knight out on solo hunts more often than usual, disappearing into the woods around the castle on the backs of their steeds, then nobody has to know.

But today, he’s taking the first step.

He’s wearing his full paladin armor today: black as night, chased in silver with rare Altean blue steel at all of the clasps. The black cape, heavy and uncomfortable, hangs behind him, and instead of his helmet he wears the black crown that marks him as the heir to all that the Marmora Coalition stands for.

Today, he is their prince.

And Shiro waits just before him, ready for orders.

Keith gives him one.

“Kneel.”

Shiro slowly sinks first to one knee, and then the other. The fine white enamel plated armor clinks and echoes in the throne room, loud in the silence all around them. All eyes are on him, but Shiro has eyes only for Keith. Keith knows he’ll never be tired of the silver in his gaze, and he cherishes it more than all of his family’s treasure. Shiro never fails to make him feel like the king he’ll be one day.

“You may be a knight, Sir Takashi Shirogane, but there’s one more honor I would like to give you.”

Shiro blinks. He’s silent. He waits.

And Keith 

“I name you a paladin, elite warrior of an order only five strong. Now we are six.” Keith carefully holds Shiro by the chin and guides his head upwards, bringing their gazes to meet each other.

Shiro’s eyes are made of steel.

His Shiro.

Keith swallows around the words that threaten to spill out, and of the desire to hear his own name in the smooth timbre of Shiro’s voice. Instead, he gives a new one to his knight. “I name you the White Lion,” he murmurs, quiet enough that only the two of them can hear it and so he can see the way Shiro’s eyes widen into a silver storm. Then, louder, to the entire throne room, he repeats, “I name you the White Lion!”

The crowd begins to whisper.

“And,” Keith adds, “my personal guard.”

Nobody can know. Not yet.

Not yet.

He traces his fingers down Shiro’s jawline, marveling at his strength, and smiles.

He can wait.

 

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on [twitter!](http://www.twitter.com/_triplehelix_)


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